


Bendy's Big Crossover Adventure!

by Sp00py



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Fear, Gen, I borrowed a bunch of people's characters, POV Second Person, Panic, Reader-Insert, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23885179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py
Summary: You meet a cast of colorful characters.AHis Dark Embraceside story.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 3





	Bendy's Big Crossover Adventure!

**Author's Note:**

> Rosie Stein belongs to [Retro_Kitten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Retro_Kitten)  
> Shadasha belongs to ShadaTHedgehog on Discord  
> Agent Eleven belongs to [RavenGryphon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenGryphon)
> 
> I got a brief summary of the characters and ran with them, so hope it's if not accurate at least a close enough approximation. Ty for letting me borrow them for my silly lil fic!

Your eyes sting from ink and exhaustion. You’re so hungry. The bacon soup supplies barely anything you need, but it’s at least enough to keep you from starving. Your limbs shake with every step. The walls warp, but that’s fine. That’s normal. Nothing stays the same here. Not even you. You’ve been rewritten and redrawn and rerun so many times, you feel like you’re fading through the paper.

Right now, you’re not walking anywhere in particular. You’re not even trying to be quiet. You’re tired. You exist, and that’s honestly the best you can hope for at this point. Bendy has left you alone for a time, but that doesn’t lessen the dangers from other denizens.

A figure moves further down the hall. Too tall to be a searcher. A Lost One, then. Aren’t you all lost ones, here? But whatever’s been done to you, you feel what they’ve endured is a hundred times worse. At least you’re still human (you think).

A board catches your tattered sneaker and you stumble, barely making any attempt to catch yourself as you knock over a chair and send a few wayward cans of soup rolling. Oh, you could eat those. You should, though you don’t want to. Just have to grab one.

You’re on your knees, and you don’t remember how you got there. Soup, right. If only it would stop moving away from your hand.

When you finally catch it, someone else catches it too. Your hand alights on theirs before you realize, and suddenly like a bolt of lighting, you’re awake. You’re aware. The hand is warm, the texture flesh, the color underneath the ink natural. 

“George --” you mutter before you can help yourself. She died, but -- that didn’t mean much anymore, did it?

A new, hopeful light in your eyes, you trace that ink-stained arm up to the face. A woman, but not George. Despite how long it’s been since she died, you could never forget what she looked like. You try to hold on to only the memories of her happy and alive, before the terror, before the ink claimed her.

You’d hesitate to call this person an angel, simply because you’ve met an angel and she was anything but heavenly, but she is real. She is human.

Words escape you. Nothing you say could encapsulate the feeling in your chest. You’re not alone -- she’s trapped here too -- another person -- another victim in this hell -- joy and horror tumble together in your head and in your heart. You try not to dry heave.

“Oh, dear! Are you okay?” the woman asks, placing a hand on your shoulder. Warm, but you flinch as though it’s the devil’s own gloved fingers. Everything swirls, you taste ink, and your world goes black.

You wake up without realizing you’d even passed out. The woman, her dress so white and her hair framing her face like a halo, kneels above you. Only a few moments had passed.

She helps you to your feet and supports you as you sway. You’re afraid to trust her, but you can’t do anything to fight her off, even if you were inclined to.

“My name’s Rosie,” she says. “Rosie Stein.”

Manners from some long-forgotten time say you should respond in kind, give your own name, but you just mumble something and shake your head. Your brain is rushing and pounding, full of blood and ink. She’s kind enough to not push it.

“Let’s get you somewhere safe,” Rosie decides. You huff a laugh. Safe.

Rosie leads to a room like all the others, sepia and stained with ink. It has a cot, and a few amenities and homey accents, something your mother would call ‘a woman’s touch’, to make it slightly less awful.

You’re sent to rest as Rosie chatters and does something that makes noises like food being made. It reminds you of home, laying in bed in the cool blue of morning, listening to your mother get the day started for her family. You refuse to be lulled into any sort of security, though. This isn’t safe. This isn’t secure. Something horrible will happen.

You wake up more rested than you’d been in a long, long while, but immediately shoot to consciousness when you hear _two_ voices.

First, you think it’s Alice, but as they talk more, you pick out Rosie’s voice and another distinctly not Alice’s. You lay very still, not letting them know you’re awake. There’s the smell of bacon soup, but it’s warm and comforting instead of scented like slime and old, congealed oil.

“I just don’t know where you all keep coming from,” Rosie says with a laugh, before lowering her voice to not quite a whisper. “Do you think it might be… _him_?” 

Him. Bendy. That monster.

The other voice, a little less dainty, but still full of what you might almost call genuine emotion if you weren’t suspicious of everything and everyone here, says, “I don’t know -- I’ve never seen Bendy do this. I don’t know if he can?”

Rosie sighs. “Me neither. This poor girl’s in awful shape. I’ve not seen anyone look like her.”

You sit up, now, and rub the sleep from your eyes. If they’re going to talk about you, they could at least talk to you.

The other girl materializes right in front of you, and you barely rein in the urge to hit her away. A squeak of a scream escapes. Her glasses glint in the light, and her eyes are sparkling and bright.

“Hi! I’m Shadasha!”

“H-hi,” you mumble out. A breath of relief escapes as Shadasha steps back with a blushing, quiet apology, though you hear a strange noise that takes you a moment to place. The familiar brushing of a dog tail against fabric. Unlike Rosie, Shadasha takes a little more time for you to put together, but you don’t bother to linger too long on the dog ears and tail. Before, it would have been strange and maybe a little unnerving, but you’ve seen so much now.

“You must be so hungry,” Shadasha continues as though you’d given her more to work with. She reminds you of a friend who could fill any conversational silence. It’s so normal, so comforting. “Rosie makes the best bacon soup.”

She walks over to a table where bowls are set out, and Rosie brings a pot over to spoon soup into each of them. They sit down, then turn to look expectantly at you. There’s an empty space between them at the table and a third bowl steaming with soup.

Something does unnerve you about these two, you realize. They’re not afraid. Worried, yes, and you suspect that’s for your sake more than anything. But real, genuine and all encompassing fear? There’s none to be found. They do genuinely seem to believe this place is safe.

You climb to your feet and brush out your skirt. Your hands are shaking.

It’s the most surreal thing, sitting at a table with _people_ , eating food from a bowl, listening to their conversation because you’ve forgotten how to talk.

“We just ran into each other in the music department,” Rosie is saying.

“Literally.”

They both laugh.

“Literally. Bendy was giving me such a fright. He can be so aggressive.”

You hear a metallic click as Shadasha nods fervently in agreement. She has a collar on. “I kind of like it aggressive though, if you know what I mean.”

Your gaze shifts from the soup to Shadasha. You suspected Bendy would violate and abuse others, because he does it to everyone, but she’s describing it so…. Consensually, so casually. They’re not afraid of Bendy, not like you are.

“Why aren’t you afraid?” you ask. It’s too quiet, barely even words, to get their attention.

“WHY AREN’T YOU AFRAID?” you scream. The conversation dies. Rosie leans forward to put a hand on your arm, but you jerk away and leap to your feet. Your bowl skitters off the edge of the table and what soup is left splatters on the floor.

“What do you mean?” Shadasha this time. She looks just as concerned as Rosie. You understand why they are, you must sound mad. But to you, they’re the crazy ones.

“You -- you talk about _him_ \-- no, no, _it_ \-- so easily! Bendy’s a monster! He’s a -- he’s a -- he’s --” You can’t breathe. You’re trying, your lungs are moving, but air isn’t entering or exiting. Are you going to pass out again? It would be a relief.

You stumble again, and both catch you, on either side. You feel crowded in, too warm, too close. Close is bad. Close is how they hurt you. Close is how they _kill_ you.

You shriek and twist away. Hide, hide, hide-- a door. It opens into small, cramped darkness.

You slam it closed behind you before they can touch you again, and cling like a vice to the handle so they can’t pull it open. They try once, then nothing. You can hear them moving outside, see their shadows through the gaps between the boards. Their words are low and muffled.

This is a trap. That’s the only explanation. You truly believe neither of the women in there are _aware_ that it’s a trap, but it has to be. You need to escape. You wish you could save them, but you can’t even save yourself.

Frantically, blindly, you fumble around on the back wall, behind the shelves. Cans and boxes fall over, clatter loudly and terrify you even more. But you’ve learned some things about the studio in your time here. The walls are weak. The wood is rotten, swollen with ink.

A board comes loose, leaving splinters in every joint of your fingers. With one gone, the rest pry off easily, splinter, leave a gaping dark hole for your emaciated form to slither through.

You fall into a hall with broken lights and a foot deep pool of ink. You glance back at the hole, at the closet, and, beyond that, as safe a place as can exist here.

You need to get out of the ink. Avoid the puddles. Avoid the darkness that drowns the wary and unsuspecting alike.

Dragging up the sodden hem of your skirt, you slosh your way to higher ground. Always move. Always run.

You only vaguely recognize the halls you slow to a walk in. They’re familiar, but like something from childhood, warped and nearly forgotten… this is the first floor. This is where you came in. George might be around here still. You shudder to think on the state of her body. At least last time it had been fast. Painless, you hope. A release.

Voices. Not Rosie nor Shadasha. Male. Sammy. One of them is Sammy’s. You’ve only met him -- once? A dozen times? -- enough to know to avoid him and his infectious, dulcet-toned madness. You freeze, and after a moment breathe a sigh of relief. His voice, along with another one tinged with a familiar accent that brings vomit to your throat, is retreating. Hopefully back to his altars and sigils and far away from you.

You creep away in the opposite direction, just in case, but find yourself turned around regardless. Unsurprisingly. You’re fairly certain that the walls shift, creating and destroying rooms at whim. But you don’t hear Sammy, and you don’t hear -- _it_. It’s been so long since you’ve been here, you wonder if you can climb out a hole in the ceiling (somewhere there were holes, right? With beautiful, dusty yellow sunlight pouring through. You remember seeing those once).

You find them, and they’re more wonderful than your faded memory. Smaller, but real and reachable, with some effort. The whistling, empty void of a pit near them draws your attention, though. Even without approaching, you know it goes impossibly far down.

You steadfastly ignore it, though its presence creeps up your back like eyes latched onto your spine, and begin to find boxes and chairs -- anything you can climb up. They take time to gather because you’re weak and eternally exhausted, but still, you work diligently for the mere hope of freedom.

“Miss?” a voice -- you’re very tired of strange voices -- says, and you drop a box on your foot with an unladylike curse.

You’re unarmed, but you’ve learned to swing your fist as well as anyone. And kick and bite. The hall you were ransacking is narrow, but you’ll play dirty, if you have to.

The person who spoke is a man. A human man. Like Rosie, like Shadasha (mostly). Sandy, pale hair, a suit. Very professional. 

“How did you get here?” he continues gruffly, though you’ve said nothing to him. “This studio is very dangerous and off-limits to the public.”

You feel like you’re being scolded by your dad. You really do miss human contact, you realize. Everyone reminds you of family and friends. “No shit,” you say. You would _never_ say that to your dad. “Why are _you_ here?”

He seems a little affronted by your attitude, but you’re not the one who looks like you just came in for an afternoon stroll after your 9-to-5.

“This studio is currently housing a… creature of interest to the United States government. The FBI is supervising the removal or accounting of him and other people trapped here. I’m Agent Eleven.”

“Removal?” Whatever else he said fades away at that one word. “Like… leave? Leave the studio?”

“Yes. I can lead you to the exit, though I have to stay and discuss some things with Bendy.”

You swallow down your panic at the ink demon’s name, and try not to think too hard on how one could discuss anything with it. Maybe this Eleven is some sort of wizard. You’re pretty sure the FBI doesn’t dabble in black magic, but you also once, naively, though black magic didn’t exist.

You’re afraid to say anything, because you feel on the verge of crying or collapse, so nod vigorously instead. You’re shaking. You’re terrified. You dare not hope that salvation is being handed to you on a silver platter. Don’t think too hard about it. Don’t think. Just _leave._

Agent Eleven leads you easily (too easily -- you shut up your thoughts before they can go any farther) to the very first hall you ever saw. The rest might blur together, but this one? It’s burned into your memory.

You see the exit. The door is open. There’s a world beyond it. A crumbling parking lot full of strange cars and chainlink. Trees, buildings. People. Agent Eleven looks tired, but he seems to fully expect that door to stay open. That the world would continue to exist once he’s crossed its threshold.

You want to step forward. You want to feel the sun again. Breathe air that doesn’t stink of ink. You can already faintly smell the warmth of the sunlight and grass. Instead, you step back. It’s not true. It’s not. It’s too easy. This is nothing but lies, lies, lies -- nothing in this world is real. You don’t know what game Bendy’s playing, so elaborate and warm and _human_ , but you won’t give in. Your heart hurts, but you won’t let him get the satisfaction of taking away a freedom you so blindly accepted as fact. You’re sure he’s out there, even. Just _waiting._

Eleven touches your elbow, and he says words, but all you hear is rushing blood and static. Bendy is out there. There is no out there. You’ll step through that door and plunge head-first into an endless, devouring void. You shriek and turn tail, bolting deeper inside.

An ink pipe bursts as you careen down the halls, even in your enfeebled state far outstripping Agent Eleven, powered solely by the abject terror of what might be. You’re engulfed in ink, blinded. You hit doorways and walls now as you frantically try to wipe it away and keep moving simultaneously.

The safest thing to do these days is run. That’s the only constant. The only security. If you run, they can’t trick you. If you run, they can’t catch you. Agent Eleven is yelling.

Suddenly, there’s nothing beneath you. And your body knows it, though your eyes don’t see it yet. Your stomach drops faster than gravity would dictate, and you feel a blast of freezing cold air. Your arm drags away from your eyes, and finally, you can see.

High above, those cracks in the world, letting sunlight spill through, glow so soft and warm and real. Agent Eleven is leaning over the edge, a look of horror on his face. You wonder how close he had been to catching you before you fell.

You don’t scream as the wind roars around you. You just fall. And fall. And fall. The opening shrinks and disappears, too far away for even light to reach you. It almost doesn’t feel like you’re falling anymore, even though your clothes are flapping and you can feel icy tendrils of air wick away the ink across your body.

You fall.

  
  
  
  


You’re in a chair. Tied up. No transition. You were falling, and now you’re not. Your breath catches like you'd been winded.

Bendy stands in front of you. Tiny. Unassuming. You don’t know if you’ve ever seen him like this before, but you know it’s him immediately. The one and only devil himself. He’s standing on books piled on a chair so that he can reach a drawing table faced away from you. A pen scratches excitedly over paper.

“‘N then you wake up and say, ‘What’s happening?’ all stupid ‘n’ confused like,” he says.

“What’s happening?”

“Perfect!” With a flourish, he stands back from his work. “Boy, writin’ sure is fun! I should probably learn t’ read at some point, too, just so I can admire my work.”

You can’t shake the strange daze you’re in. The ropes creak as you wriggle, trying pathetically to escape.

“Hey! Don’t think I don’t see ya tryin’ to leave,” Bendy admonishes. You cow before him, though he’s so small right now. You know the truth. “I still got at _least_ five more chapters in me.”

“Ch-chapters?”

“Yeah! I’m writin' my, uh, what’d Sammy call it? My magnanimous opus.”

“You’re writing,” you say in flat disbelief. “A story. But those people, they were real, they were --”

“Ain’t we all just stories, in th’ end?” Bendy asks, before lowering his pen once more. “Now where did I leave off?”

  
  
  
  
  


You’re falling.


End file.
